They’re perfectly produced but less captivating than the moments of emotional specificity.

Fans will be thrilled to know that, despite the replacement of main guitarist and co-songwriter Ben Moody, Evanescence's sophomore album is at least as unsubtle as its predecessor.

While the concept is inspired and resoundingly current, the jangly blues-bar rock seems an afterthought.

After an album's worth of tiring, spastic jazzy post-punk that smacks of musical masturbation, chances are you'll really miss At the Drive-In.

This record finds Winwood on a clichéd existential journey into jazzy world music territory, which should play well with the over-50 soft cock rock set, who for some inexplicable reason don’t seem to mind six-minute sax solos.

The features wouldn't be so bad if Game didn't yield to the wattage and personalities of his co-stars. (Again, he can rap when he tries.) Used as a constant crutch, however, they quell his ferocity.

Lacking the jangly, well-crafted gems that made Morning Comes strong, the album sounds B-side-ish at times.

The band's adventurous use of sampling and beats pays off when supporting Andy Maize's vocal on The Herd, but the alt-folk arrangements tend to get melodramatic on quieter songs like I'll Be There and the tremolo-piano-treated title track.

Quicken The Heart, however, goes nowhere new and hardly bests its predecessor.

The album repeatedly teases you with glimpses of the unhinged, earnest urgency that made the Violent Femmes semi-famous, and then flips into an annoying faux naive whimsy just as you’re starting to enjoy it.

This album belongs chained up in the vaults.

We all love to revel in a real tearjerker (Someone Like You, anyone?), but these whiney odes are heartbreak songs minus the heart.

Sonically, the first half of Unapologetic picks up on the syrupy Southern hip-hop minimalism popular last summer, while much of the latter half is a grab bag of unwieldy balladry.

Despite flashes of melodic and lyrical inventiveness, production-wise Kelly sounds like he’s chasing innovators The-Dream and Mike WiLL Made It, especially on the strip club tracks.

He’s crafted yet another replica batch of breezy, walk-along-the-beach jams [which] won’t matter to his fans, who keep coming back to their sandal-footed prophet regardless.

The Beasties have neither the musical chops nor the compositional skill... to hold listeners' interest for the length of an album.

Unlikely to win over any feminists, or win any literary prizes, Here We Stand’s main problem is being overlong and under-chorused.

Cutesy lyrics with insipid rhymes like "You can count on me like one, two, three" abound on songs that play out less like a cohesive album and more like no-brainer radio references to Coldplay, U2, Michael Jackson, Sade, Feist and so on.

Jackson wouldn’t want us to call it a comeback, but it sure sounds like one.

Despite repetitive structures and an average song length of over seven minutes, the duo hold interest with their sterling musicianship and artfully detailed performances.

The capital-P pop star backs up her I-just-don’t-give-a persona with killer singing and decent songwriting, but keeps us waiting for a banger that never comes.

Fact is, the Enemy are better than that, and their debut full-length is also certainly better than some kind of classic Britpop rehash.

Their third full-length is an 11-song collection of sincere, shimmering pop songs with golden hooks and unexpected hits of razor-sharp effects.

The album's overall bad rip-off of early Britney/current Chantal Chamandy sound is a huge step backward.

The production is glossy and futuristic to a nearly avant-garde point, yet every song is a hit.

As on Employment, some songs spark with energy and others die in the first verse. Is a complete album asking too much?

The Miami radio DJ and Terror Squad member takes few stylistic chances, making We The Best Forever a mostly tedious listen despite its flashes of lyrical invention.

The occasional bright spot (Ghostface's blistering verse on Meteor Hammer) is always counterbalanced by a low point (Trife Diesel's middling turn on Laced Cheeba).